


You Are The Opposition And The Opposite

by cantonforking



Series: Cyclical Eternity [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Human Castiel, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantonforking/pseuds/cantonforking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> '<i>It is strange being human</i>'. AU from the end of Season 6 [spoilers to 6x22]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are The Opposition And The Opposite

The Egyptians based everything on the melding of pairs, the first ideas of yin and yang. If you just looked at their culture you wouldn’t see it at first, wouldn’t see the complex tangle of belief and dedication and faith. When you first looked at Egypt you would see the pyramids and the sprawling temple complexes and the huge sphinx who watched civilisations rise and fall.  
   
Castiel had seen these enduring monuments being built, observed each block placed on top of another by workers wearing skin slicked with sweat and dotted with grains of sand. All the angels had watched Giza as the humans reached for the sun they worshipped from golden deserts. Even when he walks with the Winchesters and learns the ways of the modern world, Castiel misses the Egyptians.  
   
They were the first people he walked among, invisible to their eyes, just the flutter of wings from around the corner or that inexplicable prickling sensation of someone watching. He had seen their mud-brick homes, their busy lives driven by the seasons, the depth of their belief and the expanse of their religion.  
   
Every year their pantheon grew; thousands of gods that the Egyptians prayed to. Hundreds of rituals and spells were carved into stone and inked onto papyrus. A hundred thousand protective amulets hung around necks to ward off the natural and the supernatural alike. Even he could never hope to know their culture let alone understand it.  
   
And inside it all, everything was in pairs; left boot and right boot. They had their paired words for eternity, Djer and Nekhek, linear and cyclical. There was the goddess Nut, the sky, and her distant lover Geb, the earth god. There was Upper and Lower Egypt, spread in a kingdom along the Nile, the spine of Egypt, the opposition of the sun-baked deserts.  
   
Always the Egyptians believed – _knew –_ you cannot have order without chaos.  
   
+++  
   
Castiel feels out of place, odd and mismatched in the world he has freed. Perhaps it is the scarring the souls left on the insides of his soft, empty vessel, cutting in where Jimmy’s mind once sat. Perhaps it is the frayed threads peeling away from his grace. Perhaps it is the knowledge that the Winchesters had only just saved him from imploding and ripping the Earth in two. Or perhaps it is the stumps of bone, mangled and hidden under his clothing, which once carried him to Heaven.  
   
All he knows is that he feels off-kilter, as though he is moving slightly slower than the rest of the world, only by a millisecond, but enough to make everything wrong. He tugs on the trench coat he has a strange affection for and it fits too tight around his shoulders in a way it never has before. A deep sigh rushes out of his mouth before he can stop it and he doesn’t bother trying to cut it off.  
   
It is strange having these emotions. It is strange being human.  
   
The Winchesters found him a small apartment in a town Dean called ‘the butt-end of nowhere’. Castiel doesn’t know what that means but it is a small place in a small town in a world that is suddenly too big for Cas, so he doesn’t bother asking. He has a landlady called Nelly who Castiel has never seen without her hair rolled in pink cylinders atop her head. Every month she knocks on his door and reminds him to pay the rent and that is another thing that he has now.  
   
Sam managed to get him a job at the small local library. Castiel likes the work, likes to slot the books into the places assigned to them; likes to line them alone the wall like soldiers, spines straight, waiting for someone to tell them to stand down. They will wait forever. Sometimes he gets distracted and spends hours poring through dusty tomes about the wars of ancient Greece or journeying with small men bearing jewellery to mountains of fire. When Castiel reads, he forgets about the ragged stumps on his shoulders where his brothers sawed off his wings.  
   
It is a slow process, a slippery slope that he often gets stuck on, but the angel is learning to be a human. Castiel is learning to intimidate life. Wake, dress, work, sleep, don’t forget you need to eat. If water falls from his ~~vessel’s~~ , no, his _body’s_  eyes as he dips his head under the warm spray of the shower, then that is simply something he doesn’t understand yet.  
   
+++  
   
When she first appears, he knows he should be surprised. It took him a while but he soon realised that ‘butt-end of nowhere’ meant ‘lonely’, meant ‘forgotten’. The Winchesters come by when they can, linger for a day or two, always itching to meet the road again. Castiel has become that required stop on the map, the landmark circled in pencil so it might accidentally fade away, might disappear. It’s not their fault, he doesn’t feel hurt. He understands that his world is smaller now but their world is still just as big.  
   
So when she appears out of nowhere, clad in leather and swinging down the stand of her motorbike, he really should be amazed. He isn’t though. There’s been a shadow in his stomach, a nail scraping over his skin, not unpleasant but just the feeling of his past coming around. Just the feeling of cylindrical infinity.  
   
She strides into the bar where Castiel is having his customary end-of-day-beer (something he learnt from Dean), cocky grin already stretching her face. The entire bar turns to look at her when she comes in; a new thing in an old town is something to be examined by all. Castiel doesn’t expect her to mind the scrutiny and sure enough, her smile widens.  
   
As she walks over to the bar, he turns to stare down at the curling liquid he swirls in the bottom of his glass. He should leave. He’s not an angel of the lord anymore, not powerful and impressive. He is a clawless kitten huddled in a little corner of the world pretending he doesn’t exist. Castiel should leave because last time her saw her he kissed her, almost killed her and played pretend with yellow-brown bones.  
   
He’s about to go, really he is, and then a hand lands on his arm, small and gentle and so foreign. Then he is frozen, staring at the defined fingers and the brown, black, red caught under her clipped nails.  
   
“Clarence?” He sighs at the nickname and meets her eyes, catching her expression meld from curiosity to a strangely excited smile. “Well, of all the gins joints in the world, none of them are where I would expect to find you.”  
   
“Hello Meg,” he replied, keeping his voice as even as he could. Without really thinking he threw back his head and swallowed the last sixth of his glass. The liquor burnt its way down his throat, a disturbing preliminary of what a demon was sure to do to an angel without his mojo. “What are you doing here?”  
   
“Looks like you’ve loosened up a bit, angel of the lord.” Castiel resisted the urge to correct her. “And I’m just passing on through, looking for my own private Idaho. What about you, wings?”  
   
“That is not of import,” Castiel growled harshly, trying to cover up the lurching of his stomach at the nickname. “Don’t you have children’s hearts to rip out?” Meg looked strangely taken aback at the question, eyes darting to look at something over Castiel’s shoulder before shakily meeting his gaze once more.  
   
“I knew you still remembered how to sweet talk me,” she hissed, lips drawn into a thin smile. “You know, I always thought you would kill me if you ever saw me again. Looking for some more demon action to ruffle your feathers?”  
   
“I don’t have feathers,” Castiel snaps, his patience wearing thin as the allusions to his forgotten life cut deeper. “I do not wish to commit any actions with an abomination like you.”  
   
There is no warning, just the clink of a glass being set down, then there is a fist hitting Castiel in the nose and he doesn’t have time to duck. Gravity quickly takes over and he reels backwards, falling from his bar stool onto the floor. Firework flares of white burst across his vision and warm blood is spurting from his nose. It’s not broken though - not yet anyway.  
   
“You fucking angels think you know everything.” Meg is spitting out the words from somewhere above him, shouted voices providing the backing track to her anger. “You’re just feathered rats who think they’re better than everyone else.”  
   
Before he can think, Castiel is on his feet, hands reaching for Meg through the red-splattered world he now resides in. Twisting his body, he hurls her at the table behind him, her tiny body easy enough to throw even without his celestial strength aiding him. Bar patrons dive out of the way as Meg crashes onto the table and slides to the floor, taking a handful of beer glasses with her.  
   
“Black-eyed bitch!” He is screaming, and the words are Dean’s, not his. Every emotion that has been building up is overflowing like a pot left on to boil for too long. The world has narrowed down to just him and this demon, this black-hearted creature that still has a place in her father’s house.  
   
He barely notices the hands on his fire-hot skin, yanking him away from her. Voices are shouting in his ear but he can’t control his body, can’t manage to let go of all the _angerhatepainsadness_  that has taken over his actions. Castiel feels out of place, odd and off-kilter. These hands are holding him down, stopping him from fighting until the emotions are gone. He needs to escape.  
   
In the end, he cannot get free because he is only human and there are too many of them; too strong. He stumbles as the hands push him out the door and fresh rain is falling in steady, pattering drops. It cools his skin, douses the fire and he can bring his control back. There is only a second of breathing space then a body is colliding with his. Instinctively he wraps his arms around the slight weight, stopping her from hitting the ground.  
   
“Get off me,” Meg spits as soon as they have their footing, shoving away from him. “I don’t need your help, _angel_.” She says the word like it will poison her if it lingers in her mouth too long. Suddenly all the anger vanishes from Castiel’s mind and he is empty and hollowed out. His head is tilting sharply and he wonders if he will ever learn how to be human.  
   
“I’m not an angel.” He hasn’t said the words before. Not ever. Not to the Winchesters and not even when he is curled on the dark floor of his wardrobe where he found he can pretend the world doesn’t exist. The rain is trickling in rivers down his cheeks and Meg is glaring at him with unmasked fury but he finally says it. “I’m not an angel anymore.”  
   
“W-what?” The fists at her sides go slack and the anger fades to confusion and something that is almost hopeful. “You mean your mojo needs charging?”  
   
“No,” Castiel sighs. For a moment he considers walking away and leaving this shipwrecked conversation but a weight is slipping from his shoulders like a shadow monster banished by the light. With a sigh he shoulders off his trenchcoat and the blazer underneath, letting them bunch at his elbows. The rain soaks the back of his shirt, the wet material sticking to the stumps of bone underneath. “I mean I am no longer an angel of the Lord.”  
   
“Oh.” A thousand emotions are flittering across Meg’s face, surprise, shock, _relief_? Castiel mirrors the last one as he pulls his coat back on. Everything else has drained from his mind, leaving an empty cavern for the relief that has crept in although he doesn’t know why. Then Meg reaches for his coat, hand trembling slightly. He considers stopping her, fighting back, but there is a strange look on her face and if she is going to kill him… he just can’t seem to bring himself to care.  
   
She doesn’t though. Instead her hand slips into the breast pocket of his blazer and pulls out the salt packet that he has always kept hidden in there. For a moment he is about to ask how she knows about the demon deterrent then he remembers her lips on his, Castiel’s fingers in her hair and hands tracing his sides, exploring his pockets. Peculiar warmth tingles under his skin at the memory, juxtaposed against the rain.  
   
“Since we’re sharing and caring,” Meg mutters and then breaks the packet and tips half of the white grains into her mouth. Instantly her face screws up in a vaguely adorable expression of disgust and she turns to the side to spit the crystals out onto the pavement. They fall into the puddles of rain but there are no chunks of flesh with them, no wisps of blood. Her skin is not burning.  
   
“You are not a demon,” Castiel rasps out and emotions return in a tumbling rush like people running from a charging bull. They tangle together and trip over until he can’t decide what he thinks and what it means and who she is and _everything has changed_.  
   
“Not anymore.” Meg gives him a weak smile. It’s not forced, in fact it is the most genuine smile he has seen on her face, and perhaps that makes it stranger. “Looks like we’re two peas in a far too human pod.” Castiel doesn’t know what Meg is talking about so he just lets the chill of the rain speak instead. The next thing he knows, Castiel is offering her a place to stay and he can’t be bothered feeling surprised when she accepts.  
   
+++  
   
The shower water is too warm when Castiel steps under, rivers of fire against his rain-cold skin. He doesn’t mind really, it clears his head and helps him slot all the clamouring emotions back into place. Meg is sitting on his couch, hair wet from the shower Castiel offered to her first – he does know his manners. If he hadn’t been an angel in a previous life, this would be the strangest situation he has ever been in; though it probably is anyway.  
   
He’s not really sure what made him offer shelter to Meg; probably the same thing that threw alien words at her as she lay groaning on the hard floor of the bar. All he knows is that something has changed between them, a wall has fallen that he never realised was there. They are the same, supernatural beings trapped in human bodies, minds forced into fleshy containers that are too small for them live in. Or that’s how it feels anyway.  
   
Everything he knows, all he has gathered from a life as an angel of the lord, tells him to kill her or at least get the ex-demon as far away from him as possible. Demons don’t change, not ever. The dried blood washing away from his nose is proof.  
   
But the salt crystals melted in the rain and Meg’s face had scrunched up in disgust, not pain. He doesn’t know how it had happened, or how it could have happened, but she wasn’t a demon, not anymore. She was no more a demon than he was an angel.  
   
Idly his mind wandered to those times, no more than a year ago, when her smirk flashed like a knife’s edge and her eyes scraped over him, deeper than just his vessel. They had been opposing forces, opposites, enemies, even as he slammed her against the wall and pressed his mouth to hers. Even as she invented new nicknames for him and he stuck with ‘abomination’. They were enemies as she slid her hand under his coat and took his only weapon and have they changed at all?  
   
When the hot water runs out and a chill replaces the warmth on his skin, Castiel still doesn’t know what to think. He feels like Alice, a girl he read a book about once, thrown into a world that makes no sense except to those who have always lived in it. He doesn’t know what to expect so he expects everything but that’s not possible so instead he expects nothing.  
   
Meg is still sitting on the couch when he comes out of the bathroom, staring out the window at something Castiel cannot see. Whatever she is thinking about, it’s creasing her forehead and setting her jaw determinedly as if she is preparing for a fight she will not back down from. He remembers that look from when he left her to die in the jaws of hellhounds and she survived. He remembers that look from battlefields when he stood beside his brothers and sisters.  
   
She looks beautiful. The thought comes out of nowhere and he feels it like a slap in the face. He’s looking at an abomination, a devil’s child, a demon in every way except for black eyes and she is beautiful to him. The thought trickles along his spine, twists his insides and set his heart thumping. She turns to look at him with chocolate-brown eyes and his body tenses.  
   
“It’s hard being human,” Meg says and Castiel doesn’t bother to think over the absurdity of the statement nor the strangeness of it coming from her. When he finally gets his body to move, he forgets that he was an angel once, forgets that she was a demon. They’re humans now, caught in new, dislocated lives, tattooed by shadows of a life they dream of. Her lips are soft on his, exactly how he remembers and he didn’t know he still had that memory.  
   
When they come together they don't slot perfectly in place like jigsaw pieces crafted to be together. They clash, all angles and limbs and half-formed words lost in the press of skin. They are a lightning storm painted the walls of Castiel's room in sweat. The one time angel throws his one time enemy on the bed, following her down. Something shatters, knocked to the floor as their bodies twist around each other.  
   
They are both human and yet still demon and angel, fucking like they are fighting. Meg screams his name into the ripped pillow like it is a battle cry, voice scraping from her throat. Castiel kisses her name into the graceful curve of her neck and makes the word last forever, whispered like a prayer.  
   
She sinks her teeth into his shoulder when she climaxes, the sharp scrape of her nails down his back pulling him over with her. The light plays across Meg's face as her mouth drops open, as her body arches under his, and Castiel finds words coming to his mouth that mean too much to be said in a whisper and forgotten.  
   
When they come to their senses they are lying in a ruined room on sheets twisted together like roots of a tree. On the right side of the bed, shards of a smashed lamp are somehow embedded in the wall. Books are strewn across the floor and a strange jolt shoots through Castiel as he notices one of the pages of the Bible is hanging from the curtains. It isn't until he twists his head to the side and sees the door hanging off one hinge that the jolt morphs into a bubble of slightly hysterical laughter.

Meg turns to look at him from where she has rolled onto her stomach. "Not quite the reaction a girl expects, Casanova."

"I am sorry," Castiel replies, feeling lighter than he has in years. "I just did not expect to survive that coupling."  
   
For a moment it seems like Meg will ask what he means but then she just sighs and flips onto her side, facing away from Castiel. He thinks he might have offended her, stumbling with the human words that even she understands better than him, but then she is shuffling backwards, pressing into his side.  
   
One by one the little ridges of her spine slot between his ribs and he thinks it should feel uncomfortable but it doesn't. Ignoring her half-hearted protest, Castiel pulls Meg back until her head flops down to rest in the curve of his shoulder. It's barely there, but for a moment he catches a content smile pulling up the corners of her mouth and finally he lets a similar grin stretch across his.  
   
They're an angel and a demon, a warrior of heaven and an abomination of the underworld. Or perhaps they used to be. Blood has dried under her nails and her eyes are melted brown. In Castiel's mind he files books like counting sheep and the bone stumps protruding from his shoulders dimple the mattress. They’re sinners caught in cyclical eternity because nothing can be straightforward when you’ve been enemies for as long as they have.  
   
+++  
   
It is a new day when Castiel wakes to soft lips and soft skin. Sunshine coats the bedroom anarchy in golden hues and for a moment Meg has a halo. She is beautiful and she is still here and she is waking him with a smirk and a scrape of nails. He expects to feel regret but instead all he feels is a warmth, something human he doesn’t understand yet. Expect the unexpected.  
   
"Good morning, Clarence," Meg purrs and for once the nickname fits. She dips her head to kiss him and the shifting shadows turn her eyes black. The Egyptians believed in pairs. There is no order without chaos.  



End file.
